I was never taken with poetry. Of course, as a child there were common nursery rhymes that Aya, Kenta, and I would spin around the temple larking. Mama would read scriptures from withering scrolls, legends of our gods and the lore of our great country, Kairaku.

I was twelve when Aya went down south to work in the palace, for a while, that was Mama’s greatest pride. At just eighteen, Aya may have been the most beautiful woman in the nearby villages of Shingan.

Now I’m eighteen, and nearly ready to be either married off or made to take a vow of chastity. I highly doubt the marriage option, for all my years of serving in the temple and barking at any improper behavior towards the altars has given me a rather compromising reputation.

I think there might’ve been only two marriage offers I'd received in my life before, some old coot thinking that he’d have enough money to bag a young wife to replace his seven old ones, and Kou, a village boy who’d bring fish from the rivers all the way into the temples whenever he could. He was an actual good option, even bringing the temple’s kittens snacks sometimes– exceedingly a much better husband when compared to that old Mr. Ossan. 

“Yuuri,” Mama called, replacing the incense sticks under Amaterasu's shrine.

“Yes?” I returned, my hands were busy braiding straw baskets to sell in the village marketplace. Suzumezawa was just over a mile’s walk from here, but my feet ached from my frequent trips back and forth.

Although it was selfish to admit, it pained me to scurry into the village to sell my baskets, buy Kenta’s medicine, and carry it up the steep hills into the woods to reach the temple. More so now than ever, snow had begun to claim the land in swathes of bright and painfully stark blankets. 

Her voice was hard. Unusually so, as she preferred to speak in soft, forgiving tones. 

“Come inside dear, allow me to look at you.” 

I swept my materials into the nascent basket, and pinned it on my hip. I made sure to step clear over the gate’s boundaries before lowering myself in a bow before the doorframe. Time stretched ploddingly before I deemed it fine to look up. Mama was holding a sheet of paper, a fine and expensive material. Her eyes were red, the seal indicated the message was from the palace, one of Aya’s biannual letters she’d be permitted to send from the capitol.

When she’d first left, nearing six years ago, I’d frequently think of her. The lavishes and luxury she’d have been surrounded by, whatever work she found, I wondered about her for a lot, as younger sisters do, but I found my attention being drawn by new responsibilities I’d needed to take on in her stead. Because Papa was no longer present either, I’d taken to hunting fowl as well as preparing it. I'd learnt to adjust the hems of yukatas to draw them out for wear for as long as possible. I even taught myself to harvest and cook with the herbs from our woods.

TBC...